


After 9pm

by yeaka



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, POV Second Person, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You love Edwin Jarvis regardless of the fact that he’s wonderful in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After 9pm

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know zero about Marvel beyond this show and am no good at britpicking; heads up. Special thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing! ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Agent Carter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s more than a good husband. He’s the _perfect_ husband, and you love him for that, beyond any measure. You love the way he smiles at you before he does anything, soft but deep. You love the way he rakes a hand back through his hair when he hesitates between actions, then the way he straightens out afterwards, more aware of his appearance. You love the way he dresses so sharp, preens to perfect your home, washes all the sheets and cooks you every meal. But mostly you love the way he makes love to you, full of unconditional adoration.

He sits between your spread legs, halfway down the mattress with the sheets and blankets all bunched up around the edges. You’ve already divested him of clothes, stripped him slowly of his knotted tie, his pressed jacket, the fitted waistcoat and the sleek shirt below. You had the most fun pushing down his pants and running your palms flat below.

You’ve kissed and gasped and reveled in foreplay, and now it’s time to relax back in the pillows and watch him remove the condom from the box, such a neat invention. You might like to bear his child, someday, perhaps, but not now. He’s nothing if not fastidious, and he reaches over to put the box on the nightstand before rolling the thin rubber down his cock.

Before it’s even all the way on, you’re spreading your thighs wider, one hand running down your body to tease your waiting clit, and you mumble in invitation, “ _Edwin_...”

“One moment, please,” he tells you, not impatient but polite. Then it’s on him, his hard shaft jutting out with his interest, turned yellow and orange by the translucent cover and the low lamplight. There’s something particularly romantic about making love in this luxurious setting, in all of Mr. Stark’s money and a full, luscious home. You were prepared to live your life in poverty, never feeling quite safe. And then this man came into your life, gathered you up in his arms, swept you away to paradise, and he still cooks and cleans for you and kisses your feet between _‘I love you’s_.

How could any one _not_ want Edwin Jarvis? He smiles at you, so sweetly, as he climbs over your body, hands and knees to hold up his own weight. You wrap your arms around him, helping him settle in. His trim back is all smooth angles beneath your fingertips, shoulder blades shifting as he adjusts. He needs to get one elbow in the pillow beside your head so he can stretch one hand below him, helping to guide him to your entrance.

You’re dripping wet for him already, just like always. He helped, of course, by rubbing you through your skirt, then slipping his hands so skillfully into your panties, playing you just the way you liked. By the bedroom, you had his face between your legs, his tongue working inside you, never idle. You once wondered why Edwin, normally so particular about cleanliness, wouldn’t bother to wipe his lips off after such an act, but then he told you that he simply doesn’t think your body dirty. He tells you you’re beautiful all the time, and as he slowly presses the head of his cock into your moist entrance, he bends to kiss your cheek. His hand returns to slip through your hair, cupping the side of your face, and he murmurs against your warm skin, “I love you, Anna.” You’ve never once doubted that.

It’s good to hear it anyway. For once, you don’t reciprocate, because you’re busy gasping, arching up as he slides into your body, only one little bit at a time. He’s slow, and pistons, one gentle nudge at a time. You sometimes wonder what it would be like to be rough with him, but although he is fine with you biting and scratching and tugging him around by the collar or waistline, he can never seem to bring himself to be harsh with you. He only rocks into you while he shivers in his own restrained desire, and you wrap your body and legs and arms around him, moaning into his ear. He feels so _good_ going in, like he’s right back where he belongs, and you wind up clenching on purpose just to savour the burn. He hisses in response and slows.

Pulling back to the pillow, you detangle enough to kiss him square on the nose, gasping to urge him inside. With your knees wrapped around his back, you try to squeeze more, but he goes cautiously all the same, until he’s _finally_ deep inside you, buried to the hilt and breathing heavily.

You both take a moment to adjust. You’d be gushing obscenities at the sensations if you weren’t a spiritual woman and you didn’t think your god was listening; how could they not, after blessing you with such a prize? Edwin presses his forehead into yours, fitting perfectly even though he’s so very tall, and he cups your face before he kisses you again. It’s chaste, because you both must conserve your oxygen.

Then he’s pulling slowly back, only enough to pushes inside again, and you groan as your body arches into it—he always manages to hit just the right spots. He grinds into you before repeating the rocking motion, sliding into a steady rhythm that pushes you back and forth, takes him all the way inside your soaked channel before angling out. You get lost in the ebb and flow so easily, and he makes it better by kissing your brow, your cheek, your jaw, your chin. He trails lingering, firm kisses down your neck and opens his mouth, laving over with his tongue before he gives you a small, loose nip, just a little bite. He knows your neck is sensitive, and he likes to play all of your body to its peak pleasure. You can’t resist slipping one hand into his hair and fisting on, holding him down. He would obey without the command, and he nips and licks all over your throat and neck and down to your shoulders, all the while slipping his warm cock in and out of your aching body.

After your shoulders, it’s your breasts: he arcs to reach, mouth still trailing hungry kisses over your flushed skin. He bites less but licks more as he follows the rise of your left breast, while his hand finds the other, his long fingers curling around your flesh. He gives you a little squeeze. You gasp and clench your thighs. His tongue makes its way around your nipple, tracing the little bud at the center, and he licks at it with long, broad, quick strokes before he pops into his mouth, sucking while his hand squeezes. His palm grinds into one nipple while his tongue still plays with the other, and he sucks at you like he truly wants to draw milk. The sensations are dizzying, and you rasp around moans, “ _Edwin._ ”

He smiles up at you through the dim light, lips puckered around your hardened nub. There’s so much affection in his eyes that it makes your heart swell; your chest rises with your breath, easing in to the warmth of his hand and the heat of his mouth. It’s a good thing Mr. Stark isn’t home, so there’s no need to cover your mouth and your noises: a constant litany Edwin earns from you with ease.

He only finishes with one nipple so he can lick his way over to the other. As soon as your breast is released, it feels cold in the absence, wet and aroused, heaving as the rush of his cock continues to fill you. It’s so very long, like all of him, nicely thick and a little curved, so it rubs at your walls with every thrust, and he knows just how to circle his hips to do it right. Sex, for him, is always about _pleasing you_ , and you always want to return the favour, but then it feels too good to do anything but take it with ecstasy. The more he pushes into you, the more you’d give him the world.

Yet, when he finally releases your nipple, now tingling and as hard as the other, you lift a hand to his chest. At first, you just _feel_ him, drag your nails lightly across his skin and watch it turn pink in its wake. Then you splay your fingers hard over his heart, pushing him up a fraction.

He stops his hips immediately, impaling you halfway, his mouth still panting and his eyes burning but curious. You take a few seconds to gather yourself enough to be coherent, and then you say, “I want to ride you.” He almost laughs, grinning wide and bending down to peck your cheek. A moment later, he’s slipping out of you, leaving you raw and empty.

He rolls onto his back on the other side of the bed. You roll to kiss him before you push up to sit, though at first, it gives you vertigo—he always puts you in such a state that the rest of the world greys out, all your colours wrapped in this one man.

He places one hand on your waist and gently helps guide you as you move to straddle him. Up on shaken knees, you reach below to line the two of you up. When you cup his shaft, it twitches, ripe and pulsing in your hand, and he has a sharp intake of breath. You take it to your lips, pressing it first down the seam and rubbing the swollen head against your clit, and then you give it a full push inside, voice breaking as he enters you. You tilt forward to brace your hands on his taut stomach, too far gone to worry about your weight on him. He grunts but takes it, one hand stroking beautifully at your waist and the other running fondly up and down your arm. You sink onto him one sensual stretch at a time, until you’re against the scratch of his thighs and he’s so far inside you that you think you might burst. You’re so wet and loose that it’s all _delicious_.

You can control this angle. He holds onto you to steady you, but you have all the power. The first move you do is just a rock forward, pivoting your hips to rub his cock against your walls, and then you’re going in a small circle, letting him swirl inside you. He moans in delight, and you can feel his hips quivering—he’d very much like to hump up into you, but he’s too much of a gentleman. You do it instead, first lifting off then dropping down, your weight slamming you together with enough force to make you both gasp at the same time. You clench around his waist with your thighs and knees and do it again, employ all your muscle to start bouncing up and down on him, over and over, faster and faster, while the sound of slapping flesh and reedy moans fill the air. The stench of both of your arousal is everywhere, mingled with your dulled perfume and his expensive cologne. Your breasts bounce with you, until you breathe, “ _Edwin,_ ” and he reaches up to cup them. He works them, rolls them around and squeezes them, kneads into them, to make you squirm and gasp and fall into high-pitched, desperate noises, and you cross the line from making love with him to fucking him.

He cries your name. Loud, hard, bursting in your ears, his pretty accent twisted around the endearing word. He looks so gorgeous like this, disheveled and debauched, though of course, he’s beautiful when he’s all done up, too. After a few minutes of you relentlessly riding his cock, he pulls one hand away to cover his mouth. You’re disappointed at the loss of his cries, but then his whimpering sounds start to filter out around his fingers, and you bend down enough to lick his thumb and half-hidden upper lip. You whisper, “You can finish.”

He shakes his head. He always does. He lets you tug the hand away, and he licks his pink lips and murmurs, “I’ll wait until you’re done.” He sounds breathless, right on the brink, but he never finishes before you and probably never will. You kiss him, hard, all full of tongue and unadulterated passion, which he meets back in turn.

When you pull back, he goes with you, draping one arm around your waist to keep you in tight. He sits with you in the mattress, you still straddling his lap and grinding onto his cock, and he holds onto your waist and kisses every part of you he can reach while you ride him to the edge, on fire in so many places.

Finally, it’s too much; you love him and he feels so _good_ , and the way his tongue worships your body is too much to bear. Your orgasm rips through you, washes over everything, blanks out your vision for a moment and leaves your brain a heady mess of fog. You wrap your arms so tight around his shoulders and fist so hard in his hair that it’s a wonder he doesn’t cry, but his cheeks are dry when you kiss him to bury all your screams. You roll into him again and again, wracking out every last shudder, thighs quivering beyond your control and hips squirming in bliss, until he gasps against you, and you can feel his orgasm beneath your fingers.

His is quieter, restrained, but perfect and beautiful, and you’re always honoured to watch the pleasure and peace wash over his face. All of his body seems to tense, then relax at once, and you can just barely feel him inside you, expanding the condom while you continue to grind into it. You always take longer to spend, and you ride it out, milking him of his at the same time. You hold onto him for dear life, because it’s all you can do not to melt away.

It takes a few moments afterwards, long after you’ve spilled all you have, to recover. You’re both panting, sweat slicked and tingling with leftover pleasure, bodies limp and spent. Finally, you pull away enough to climb off him, hissing as his cock slips out. You settle next to him in the bed, wonderfully heavy and satiated.

He pulls the condom of first. It goes back to the box to be washed later, and then, for a second, it looks as though he’ll get up to fetch a towel. But you place your hand on his and moan, “Edwin.” Because you need him next to you.

He obliges, of course. He smiles at you, like he always does, like he’d give you the moon if you asked: he’d find a way. For now, he stretches alongside you in the bed, so close that your sides touch and you can intertwine your fingers like the newlyweds you may as well be. You roll over just enough to kiss the corner of his lips and sigh, “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling.” The fact that you hear it so often makes it no less wonderful. He kisses you back, then reaches over you to the nightstand, plucking your panties up. You laugh as he hands them to you—better safe than sorry, and you’re both wet around the bottoms. Right now, you couldn’t care less, and you shimmy into the panties, hoping they’ll at least catch half the mess.

Then you just can’t take it anymore, and you abruptly roll over, all the way on top of him, crushing him down and nuzzling into him, while he laughs and holds onto you. With his warmth all around you, you slip off to sleep, though sometimes you wish you wouldn’t, as you can never quite dream better than _this._


End file.
